To This My Love Hath Come At Last
by Medieval Scribe
Summary: The Appendices say that Boromir never married. But maybe he did fall in love. An exploration of love, fate and choice in Gondor.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_Dol Amroth_  
October 3011 TA

"What is this about Umbar? Have there been incursions recently? There have been no reports of such in the City." Boromir had arrived in Dol Amroth yesterday, at Denethor's request, to attend the annual council of the southern fiefs. Much of the council discussion had centered around taxes and the rebuilding of the coast roads, and Boromir was largely indifferent to it. But his interest increased as the council turned its mind towards Gondor's defenses.

"No, not exactly." It was Imrahil who spoke, shifting in his seat uneasily. "There was a village near the Ethir Anduin that was attacked a month ago. It was not even an attack, really. . . just a raid, but a house, and several fishing boats were lost." Imrahil sighed. "The situation is not exactly . . . dire yet." Imrahil chose his words carefully, and Boromir noted that a number of the lords shifted uneasily.

"Yes, but neither is it to be taken lightly." Hirluin, the lord of Pinnath Gelin spoke, an edge of anger to his voice. The people of the falas are simple, Captain. One attack from the Corsairs can easily become an invasion in the minds of the people, with an entire fleet of Black Ships."

There was much murmuring and agreement around the council chambers. "Yes, it is true. Though this attack was small, still it is proof that the Corsairs grow ever bolder, and you cannot make light of our concern, Lord Boromir." Golasgil of Langstrand added. "If there is no answer from Minas Tirith, we will assume we are abandoned. And we would be right to think so!"

Boromir felt his anger grow at Golasgil's words, but labored to keep his voice polite, his tone even. "And what do you think the answer should be, my lord?"

"We need more soldiers here. The Swan Knights may be sufficient for Dol Amroth, but what of the rest of the falas? We have barely enough men to defend our own lands, much less the entire coast. You could always reduce the numbers in Anorien and send some of those men to Pelargir. . .or to other places in the South."

"But the strength of Mordor is focused on the City, and the attacks usually come from the East, and from the North. It would be not be entirely wise for all strength to be turned south." It was Angbor of Lamedon who spoke, his voice quiet but steady. Boromir had never met the man before, but knew him by reputation. He was known for being a man of few words, but with a great cleverness that belied his quiet nature. Boromir sent the man silent thanks for giving voice to Boromir's own sentiments.

"Not wise? Perhaps we should reconsider the wisdom of sending so many of our men to the City!"

This prompted more angry words from others around the room, and Boromir noted that what had begun as a staid and dull meeting of the lords had become much more tense and contentious.

"My lords!" Boromir raised his voice, making sure he was heard clearly in all corners of the hall. "Peace. Rest assured that the Steward does not take your concerns lightly. Indeed, if _our _lord did not worry over your concerns, he would not have sent his High Warden to speak on his behalf. I will be certain to relay your concerns to the Steward, and a decision will be made that will satisfy all here. Is that not so, my lord Prince?" Boromir turned to Imrahil, who nodded agreement and then began to speak himself, steering the lords away from the subject of Umbar.

"Perhaps we can move on to other matters of concern to the falas. . ."

Boromir sank heavily into the chair offered to him, dusting a little sand off his boots. He held out his now-empty goblet for more wine.

"That council meeting was more. . .difficult than I expected, Uncle."

"Indeed," added Imrahil, rubbing his temples, "but that was expected, I think."

Boromir observed his uncle carefully, noting that although he still seemed quite young, there were now many more strands of silver in Imrahil's hair, many more lines and wrinkles on his face.

"I have not known the falas lords to be so restive before."

Imrahil chuckled. "No, I suppose they are not usually. But they are right to be, I think. After all, it is not every day that Denethor sends his son to one of our council meetings. Tell me, Boromir, does the new Prince of Dol Amroth pass your inspection?" Imrahil's expression was genial, but there was an edge to his voice that made Boromir uneasy.

"It is not meant as an inspection, Uncle. It is just that I wished to see the realm for myself." _And because Father suspects, perhaps rightly, that you do not always tell him all you know. __  
_  
Imrahil was silent for a moment, fixing Boromir with a steady gaze. Then, he relaxed and his mien became less serious. "Well, I am glad you came, Boromir, whatever the reason. We do not see you often enough in Dol Amroth."

"No, that is true. I wish that I could be here more often, but my duties often keep me in Osgiliath or the City."

"You have duties here as well. You and Faramir are to inherit much of your grandmother's lands here, and you should see to that. . .perhaps appoint someone to oversee the property." Imrahil was about to continue, but was interrupted by a soft voice.

"That is certainly good advice, Imrahil, but I am not dead yet, and I think you should wait just a little while longer to dispose of my properties."

"Grandmother!" Boromir rose to greet Lady Hareth, kissing her cheek and helping her into a large chair by the fire. "You are well?"

"I am old, Boromir. It hardly matters whether I am well, only whether I am alive."

Boromir chuckled. Her speech had lost none of its sharpness, but he noted with dismay that she had grown much older and more frail in the year since his grandfather's death. "You will live forever, Grandmother. Even Mandos himself is frightened of you."

She waved off the jest with a grimace. "Tell me, what news of the City? Denethor, Faramir. . .they are well?"

"Yes. They send you their best wishes. I am to apologize on Faramir's behalf. . .he very much wanted to be here, but he had other things to tend do."

"Other things? Why do you not just say plainly that things are bad in Ithilien? Do you think I am a fool?"

"I think your age is beginning to interfere with your good humor, Mother."

Hareth seemed not to care what Imrahil thought and focused her attention on Boromir. "Tell me of the City, Boromir. Of what is spoken in the streets. Of what the ladies say at the parties."

"Ah, Grandmother, you are asking the wrong grandson. Faramir would know more of what is spoken in the streets. He finds such things more interesting than I do. As for the parties, you may see for yourself at year-end, when you are in the City."

"I will not be there, not if I have my way." Then, she laughed. "But I might be tempted to come, if there were some grand event. A wedding, perhaps."

Boromir raised an eyebrow at her. "That is a good plan, Grandmother. I will let Faramir know that he is to begin looking for a bride as soon as possible."

"You jest, Boromir. But you leave too much to chance. There is a great deal of intrigue in the City, and if you do not marry soon . . ."

"Please. Not this argument again. I have no wish for a wife." Boromir's discomfiture was only increased by the sight of Imrahil smirking, trying to keep from laughing out loud.

"All right, Boromir. I will stop for now, but you will hear more from me on this matter, you may be assured. What do you plan for the morrow?"

"I am to help Elphir inspect his men. I was surprised he asked me."

"He looks up to you, you know. . . admires you greatly."

"Do you think me unworthy of Elphir's admiration, Grandmother?'

Hareth rose, came over to where Boromir was sitting, and stroked his hair. "No, lad. You are a great captain, and a good man. You are worthy of everyone's admiration, perhaps even of a lady's."

Boromir rolled his eyes and was about to protest, but Hareth held up a silencing had. "I am to take a walk in the gardens. Would you like to join me?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

It had been a long walk through the gardens, and afterwards, Boromir wandered the grounds, through places and hallways he had not seen in years. He recalled how, as children, he and Faramir would run all over the keep, looking for interesting things, secret hallways, and places to hide. The thought filled him with melancholy, making him long for the past, and making his tread heavy and slow.

He walked aimlessly, letting his feet take him where they would, and soon found himself in a series of small connected rooms lined with books from floor to ceiling. _Uncle's library! How long it's been since I was here!_ There was a series of children's books in the library on the great Sea Kings and their ships, and when he had been a young boy, Boromir had spent hours looking at the pictures, imagining himself aboard the ships, leading great battles at Sea. _I wonder if those books are still here._

The hour was growing late, and Boromir could see a few candles lit in the library. At the far end of each room of the library was a large bay window through which Boromir could see the sun setting over the Sea. He began to search for the books, but soon found himself lost. The books were arranged differently than in the archives in the City, and he could not quite figure out where they might be. He looked around for someone to help him, and at last saw a girl sitting at a table by the window.

The girl was writing something in a large book, the table around her littered with brushes and pigments and inks in small glass bottles. Her head was bowed over the page, and she was obviously deep in concentration. Boromir shuffled his feet noisily, so as to alert her to his presence, but not startle her, but she did not seem to notice. So he drew closer and gently cleared his throat. The girl finally looked up, and straight into Boromir's eyes.

He forgot the words he was about to speak. Indeed, he forgot where he was and perhaps even who he was. All he remembered were the sounds of the Sea, and words learned long ago, but long since forgotten . . .

_Though all to ruin fell the world __  
__and were dissolved and backward hurled, __  
__unmade into the old abyss, __  
__yet were its making good, for this, __  
__the dawn the dusk, the earth the sea, __  
__that Lúthien on a time should be._

--

Author's Notes:

This story was inspired by a post from Gwyneth at the Brothers of Gondor forum, suggesting a non-AU story featuring Boromir in love. The lines of poetry are from the Lay of Leithian, as are the major themes of this story: love, choice and fate. I have tried to make the story as canon-friendly as possible. If you disagree with that, please let me know.

This story owes its existence to very insightful commentary and suggestions from a number of BoG regulars (you know who you are!). Special thanks to Cressida for all her careful beta-editing and her excellent feedback, but mostly just for listening!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Boromir stood rooted to the ground, unable to form a proper thought, feeling as if he had been bewitched. As if from far away, he could just barely hear a voice, but the words made no sense.

"My lord?" The voice was persistent, and it took Boromir a moment to realize the voice was speaking to him, and still another moment to realize that _she_ was speaking to him.

"My lord, are you all right?" The girl rose, pushing her chair away from the table, and the sound of wood dragging against stone finally forced Boromir into reality.

"Yes, I . . . I was just . . ." Although his tongue was finally unstuck, Boromir's heart was beating a little faster than usual and the words formed slowly in his mind. He felt strange, and could not recall the last time he had felt this way, or been at a loss for words.

Boromir gestured in the direction of his own cheek. "You . . . you have ink on your face." He was beginning to feel a bit foolish, but the spell was broken, and he schooled himself to remain as calm and unflustered as he usually was.

The girl cocked an eyebrow at him, and then gave him a winning smile, as she pulled a handkerchief almost out of nowhere. She dipped the kerchief into a little water pot on the table and scrubbed at her cheek. "Indeed," she said, holding out the piece of cloth for Boromir to see, stained now with a smudge of green pigment.

"I thank you, my lord, for pointing that out." She paused for effect, and Boromir noted that she seemed very amused. "Is there something I can help you with? Or did you come all the way here just to tell me that I have ink on my face?"

"No, I . . .I was just. . ." It suddenly struck Boromir that he could not ask her to find the book for him. _A grown man asking for a children's book. Fool!_

"I was just wandering."

"Ah. The keep is a wonderful place for wandering. I prefer the gardens to the libraries myself, but to each man his own." She smiled at him, and Boromir found himself chuckling, in answer to the teasing glimmer in her eyes. _Such lovely eyes too, clear and sparkling.__  
_  
"Forgive me. I have disturbed you in some task." Boromir gestured at the table and the book the girl had been writing in.

"No, no. It is getting dark anyway, and it is harder to do this as darkness falls. Would you like to see?"

Boromir walked to her table slowly, curious to see what she wished to show him, but wary of being too close to her. He glanced at the book, and noticed some familiar lines on the page, surrounded by pictures in the margins, some of which were still incomplete. "It is one of Almariel's _Histories_, is it not?"

"Yes, it is!" she answered, clearly pleased that he had recognized the work.

"And you are copying it out?" She was looking at the book, and not at him, and Boromir was torn, for he liked looking at her eyes, but not having to meet her gaze made it easier for him to speak to her.

"Oh, no. There is no need to do what others have already done. My task is to draw the pictures, and color them with ink, if needed. It makes the book much more interesting, don't you think?"

"Yes, very much," Boromir added, thinking idly that her presence alone would make any book more interesting than he had ever found it before. _No!_ _Be sensible!_

She moved away and began to pull other books out from a stack behind her, obviously eager to show him more of her handiwork. Boromir let out a sigh of relief and allowed himself to watch her out of the corner of his eye. He noticed for the first time how tall she was, and that there was something regal and slightly distant about her manner that spoke of noble birth, if not high station. She seemed young to him, but not too young. _Probably close to Faramir's age.__  
_  
She was dressed very plainly, in a dark wool dress, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her hair pulled back rather severely. He wondered if she was someone who served Imrahil. _An archivist, or perhaps one of Uncle's scribes?_ When she came back to the table with a few books and began to turn the pages, Boromir noted with dismay that there was ink under her fingernails and various pigments stained her fingers and her dress.

"Why do you add the pictures? It is only scholars who read these books, and they do not need pictures to explain, do they?" He did not particularly care about her answer, but wished to keep her engaged in conversation a little longer.

"Ah, these pictures are not for explanation, my lord. They are for humour!"

"For humour?" Boromir was confused. As far as he could remember, there was nothing particularly humorous in Almariel's works.

"The _Histories_ can be quite dull. The pictures can help the reader see everything less seriously, and that helps give new meaning to the text!"

Boromir was not sure this was true, but suspected the girl expected him to agree. "Yes, I can see how that might work."

She seemed to sense his doubt. "I think, my lord, you will understand better if you read for yourself," she said, holding one of the books out for him.

He took the book from her, and then realized she did not know who he was. "I am remiss. We have been speaking so long, but I have not introduced myself. I am . . ."

"I know who you are, Lord Boromir." The teasing note had returned to her voice, and she was looking into his eyes once more, making Boromir uneasy.

"How do you. . ."

"It is simple enough, my lord." She tapped the design of the White Tree on his tunic, surprising Boromir with her familiarity. "You wear this." She smiled, the smile quirking a little in amusement. "And the whole keep has spoken of naught but you for days now."

Boromir found himself grinning back at her, delighted by her amusement. _She is lovely, when she smiles._ This thought disturbed him, and he tried to shake it off. _I cannot think like this. I should go._

He held up the book and retreated a few steps from the desk. "I thank you then . . . for the book, and the lesson." She gave him another bright smile and bowed her head politely.

He was almost to the door when he suddenly remembered something. He turned back towards her. "You know my name, but I do not know yours."

She smiled, and said nothing at first. Boromir wondered at that, thinking that she was testing him somehow.

"Míriel, my lord."

----

Boromir drained the tankard of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was in the keep's kitchens, eating a late breakfast with Elphir, after he had helped with the inspection of Elphir's knights. In truth, they were not proper knights, but rather new and untrained men who hoped to become knights one day. It had been Imrahil's idea to put Elphir in charge of these men, and Boromir had to admit the idea was a good one. _A captain-in training with men-in-training._ The men had been fairly raw, and Boromir suspected, in need of a little discipline, but Elphir was doing well as their captain. It had been years since Boromir had seen the lad, and he was quite impressed.

"But what does it really mean to lead men, Boromir? To be their captain?" Elphir spoke softly, and with an air of seriousness more fitting someone far older. Something about him reminded Boromir a little of Faramir. "What if I have trouble with them?"

"That would depend on the sort of trouble, I suppose. I don't worry too much about things like fighting, or drinking. Tavern brawls are common for soldiers, Elphir. You are better off turning a blind eye to such things. I tell my men that I expect they will always be sober while they are in the field, and that they will be respectful to one another, and to other people. The rest follows easily."

"What about other things, when they are dishonest? What if they steal?"

"Stealing? Have you had that problem with your men?"

"No, not here! The Prince pays decent wages, and I think my men would not stoop to stealing. But I have heard of it happening in other places."

Boromir considered this for a minute. It was not an uncommon problem, particularly in the smaller, less wealthy fiefs. Soldiers were often men of good family, but not always. And in fiefs where the wages were low, there was sometimes not enough left to keep them from theft. But it was a mean thing, and when theft was discovered, it often wreaked havoc with morale. Boromir knew he was fortunate to not have had to tackle the issue, but he had faced enough matters of a similar nature to know that tough punishment was the answer.

"If they steal from their lord, then I think the men should punished, for that is disloyal, and should not be encouraged. If they steal from the common folk, then that should be punished as well. You don't want the common folk to think the soldiers who mete out the lord's justice are not subject to it themselves."

"True enough. But what if they steal from each other? Which men do you punish? And how to punish without seeming cruel, but still do justice?"

"I think the ideal punishment is to do what is best for your men, for the unit they fight in. If it were left to me, I would dismiss the men, for men who would steal from each other should not be soldiers."

"But is not the whole unit hurt, if I dismiss some of the men? They have learned soldiering together, after all."

"Yes, and it is important that your men fight together as a unit. But at the same time, if one man is stealing from another, perhaps they will lose trust in one another, and then they will not fight together, and I do not know if such men can be trusted to be ready for battle."

Elphir nodded, and then shrugged, giving every indication he would come to his own decision, regardless of what Boromir had to say on the matter. "What do you for the rest of the day, Boromir?"

"I am to meet with Lord Angbor and the Prince. To discuss how to resolve the issue of more soldiers in Pelargir." Boromir sighed. "In truth, I am not at all fond of all these meetings."

Elphir chuckled. "No, nor I. But I think of it this way: I would rather spend hours speaking to Father about taxes than be chattered at all day by Amrothos and Lothiriel!"

Boromir laughed, nodding his agreement. Then, as Elphir rose to leave the table, Boromir decided to ask Elphir about what had been on his mind all morning.

"Who is the archivist here, cousin?"

Elphir looked surprised, and then laughed, a deep and rich sound that reminded Boromir of his grandfather. "We do not even have an archive, Boromir. What would we need an archivist for? Father does have a nice collection of books in his library, but . . ."

Boromir interrupted him. "A scribe, then." _She has to be someone who serves in the keep!_

Elphir shrugged. "There are many. You've seen one of them, the old man, Thorondir, who attends the Prince at council meetings. Have you need of a scribe?"

_Yes, one particular scribe, with the most amazing . . .Enough! _Boromir was appalled at the direction of his thoughts, and cautioned himself to stop acting like a fool.

"Yes, I think I will need some help, Elphir. I need to prepare reports on the council to send to the Steward."

"Well, let's go find Thorondir then. No sense delaying reports to the Steward!"

----

Later that evening, after a meal peppered with questions and conversation from Lothíriel and Amrothos, Boromir stepped out for a walk. He had considered going back to the library to find Míriel, but decided he was not _that_ interested in tempting fate. Instead, he had walked out of the keep, and into the gardens, and then towards the outer walls that surrounded the keep.

Night had fallen, and the moon had taken shelter behind a cloud, leaving everything shrouded in grey. He stood now at a low wall, the feel of the stone under his hands reminding him of Minas Tirith. The thought of the City filled Boromir with a great longing and an even greater sadness. He knew there was nothing more beautiful in all of Arda than his City, and he suspected it was made more so by its closeness to that most vile of all Darkness. In the City or in Osgiliath, he often purposely faced East, as if he could banish the Enemy with only his stubborn will.

But this was not the City. As he looked out from the wall, he could see the Sea stretched out before him, dark and calm, yet filled with an unknown power. _The Sea has always been the undoing of us, as it was for the men of Númenor._ He shivered, finding the Sea sinister and forbidding. _But so are we drawn to it, like moths to a fire. There are those of us who cannot be parted from it._ This thought saddened Boromir, reminding him of his mother. As the years had passed, memories of her had faded, so that he could no longer remember exactly how she looked, or just how her voice sounded. But he remembered certain things as distinctly as if they had only just happened. He remembered the way she spoke of the Sea, with such longing, as if she could not bear to be parted from something so beautiful.

_It __is__ beautiful,_ thought Boromir. In the pale and clouded moonlight, the Sea seemed like a vast grey-green blanket, speckled with bright light here and there. The color reminded him of Míriel's eyes, and he thought once more of something out of the great poems.

_Endless roll the waters past! __  
__To this my love hath come at last, __  
__enchanted waters pitiless, __  
__a heartache and a loneliness._

He shook himself, ordering himself to cease this foolishness. _Love? She is just a girl . . . and she is not for you! _He reminded himself that the lesson of the Sea was that those who sought what was not theirs came to a bad end, and he knew that was not his fate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The Lady Mírwen rapped smartly on the door to Lady Hareth's parlor, while Míriel cast a baleful glance at her. They had argued about meeting with Hareth, and Míriel still thought the whole affair, a day spent sewing with older women, a waste of her time. She had thought to spend the day finishing up the illustrations in the _Histories_, so they would be ready as a _mettarë_ gift for her father. But Mírwen's mind was made up, and Míriel knew better than to cross her mother.

A maid who seemed as old as Arda showed them into the parlor. It was a large and well-lit room, and Míriel thought the room was very similar in size and shape to the library. In one corner, in a large chair by the window, sat the Lady Hareth, her sewing basket in her lap and her feet propped up on a warming stone. Míriel wondered idly if Hareth could still see well enough to sew.

She rose slowly to greet her guests. "Ah, Mírwen, it is good to see you, after so many years." Hareth took both Mírwen's hands in her own, and seemed genuinely pleased to see the lady of Lamedon. "And this must be Míriel."

Míriel nodded politely and took Hareth's outstretched hands, surprised that the older lady's grip was still strong. "Thank you for inviting us, my lady."

Mírwen gave Míriel a sidelong glance and a slight nod of the head, as if to say she was pleased her daughter was at least being polite.

The ancient maid returned with tea and cakes, and Hareth motioned her two guests into the comfortable chairs set out near her own. They settled in, each lady picking up her sewing, and putting together a stitch or two every now and then, between sips of tea and small talk. It soon became apparent to Míriel that Lady Hareth's gatherings had almost nothing to do with sewing.

"Tell me, ladies, is all well in Lamedon? What news from the other fiefs?"

"Ah, my lady, there is not much to tell that you do not already know. You have heard, no doubt, that Galdor, the eldest son of Golasgil, is to be betrothed."

"Yes. Indeed, I think they intend to announce the match at the feast tonight. As if the feast were not already grand enough! Do you know the girl, Mírwen?"

"Not personally, no. I am told she is of old and good family, although not very wealthy. And quite pretty as well, from what I've heard."

Hareth chuckled. "Yes, it is good that she is pretty, although clever would be better. Especially since she is marrying the heir to Langstrand."

Míriel rolled her eyes and did not care that the other two might notice. She had first heard of Galdor's betrothal only a few days ago, from Galdor himself, and he seemed both happy and content with his own choice.

"I should think that neither pretty nor clever would matter much, when two people are in love, my lady."

Míriel felt her mother nudge her in the arm, a silent signal to hold her tongue. Hareth seemed not to notice, laughing heartily instead.

"You are very young, Míriel, and you think of naught but love and poetry, and all other such things. But there is more to being a wife than just love."

"Forgive me, my lady, she did not mean . . ."

Hareth waved her hand, dismissing Mírwen's words. "It is important for a wife to love, but it is not the only thing. She is not just the jewel of her husband's house, to be cherished by him, and admired by others. She is to be his helpmate, in all things, be he a great lord, or a simple farmer."

"The great tasks in a fief often fall to the lady, not the lord, after all," Mírwen added, her tone even, but with a slight hint of smugness. "It is the lady who maintains the lord's household, ensures the lord's men are properly paid, sees that his taxes are properly collected. . ."

"Ah, yes. Taxes." Hareth had been focused on Míriel when she spoke, but now her attention turned to Mírwen. "Is it true what I have heard? That Calembel has increased the taxes on salt from Dol Amroth?"

Mírwen's face fell, and she seemed momentarily speechless. Míriel, for her part, was impressed at how fast Hareth's mind worked, moving from topic to topic, her tone now commanding, where it had been softer before. She was also a little amused at her mother's obvious discomfiture.

"Yes, the taxes have been increased. But it was not done meanly. The harvest was not good this year, and we have had to buy more grain, from Lossarnach, and even from Rohan. Also, if we are to send men to the garrison in Pelargir, they will have to be properly provisioned."

"Lamedon sends men to Pelargir? I had not heard of this plan. Has the Steward agreed?"

"That I do not know, my lady, although I hear the idea came from Lord Boromir."

_Ow!_ The needle slipped a little from Míriel's hand, and she managed to jab herself painfully in the finger, drawing a little blood. _Boromir! I forgot all about him!_ She wiped her finger on her skirt, and wondered idly if she would see him again.

----

Míriel smoothed a wrinkle out of her dress as she walked into the great hall on her brother Hathol's arm. They were to be seated at the Prince's table for the feast, and she was more than a little surprised by this, for she had not expected her father to be so honored. It made her curious about her mother's earlier audience with Hareth, and about all the odd whisperings in the keep over the last few days. _Something is afoot. _

Her curiosity, however, was quickly suspended by her awe at her surroundings. As they were led to their place at the Prince's table, she noticed that the hall was magnificent, made even more so by the lamps and great banners that had been added for the feast. _Feasts in Calembel are never quite so grand._

"It's so beautiful, Hathol, is it not?"

Hathol shrugged noncommittally. "I suppose. I am just happy there will not be any dancing."

"Nobody would dance with you anyhow!"

Their banter was interrupted by a gentle poke from their mother, who directed Míriel into the seat next to her own with a whispered admonition to be quiet. They stood and faced west for the Silence, and as they sat back down, Prince Imrahil stood and spoke in a clear voice, thanking all the lords for attending the council and sharing their wisdom. He then turned to Lord Golasgil, who announced the betrothal of his son, as expected. There was much polite cheering and murmuring at the announcement, and everyone raised their glasses to honor the new couple. Soon thereafter, the guests were served their meal.

Míriel was not terribly fond of the food in Dol Amroth. It was richer and saltier than what she was used to in Calembel. _Also fishier_. She picked at her food and chose instead to observe those around her. To her right, her mother and father sat, speaking politely with a lord whose name Míriel could not remember. To her left, Hathol was deep in conversation with Gundor, another of Lord Golasgil's many sons. She could not quite hear what they were saying, so she turned her attention to the rest of her dining companions. Across the table and a few seats away sat most of Prince Imrahil's family. Lothíriel and Amrothos were arguing about something, and next to them sat Elphir, talking to. . .to Boromir.

_Well, this is interesting._ Míriel had not expected Boromir to be at the feast, thinking that perhaps he had left Dol Amroth, for she had not seen him in days. She had heard a great deal about Boromir from his cousins, and had expected him to be as most soldiers often were, at least in Calembel: unkempt, worn, and a bit coarse. She had been surprised that day at the library to find that Boromir was instead a tall man, noble and handsome, but not the least bit coarse. In fact, he had been quite shy, which had surprised her even more.

Tonight, however, there was little of that shy man in evidence. Rather, he seemed to her to be taller and broader than he had been before, and there was something commanding about his presence, every bit a great lord and captain of men. He was speaking to Elphir, occasionally using his hands to make a point, and Míriel could not help but notice how strong the hands were, and also how gracefully he used them.

Just then, he must have realized she was watching him, because he turned a little and met her eyes. To her disappointment, he turned away almost immediately, pulling those lovely hands off the table and out of her eyesight. She was even more disappointed that there had been no look of recognition on his face. _He does not remember me._ The disappointment surprised her immensely, for she herself had barely remembered her meeting with Boromir until that day.

The rest of the evening passed in a sort of haze for Míriel, as she tried not to feel disappointed that Boromir neither looked in her direction, nor tried to speak to her. She began to feel annoyed by all the people around her, and felt even more irritated at her own silliness. _I should take a walk, clear my head._

A few minutes later, she found herself walking in the keep's gardens. It was a dark night, with only a little bit of moonlight coming through the clouds, and Míriel could only make out shadowy outlines of the different plants and shrubs in the dark. She made her way to a small bench in the middle of the gardens and sat down, trying to sort through her scattered thoughts.

She sat facing the keep, wondering at its size and beauty. It was also a bit odd in its design. She knew the keep sat at the top of a cliff, circled by a stone wall, built long ago by the keep's first lords. There were windows on only the south and west sides, facing the Sea, but the north and east walls of the keep were completely windowless and formed a sheer face on the other side of the cliff. "It is an odd place. I wonder why they made it so?"

"It is built so to keep it safe."

Míriel jumped, startled to hear another voice. She turned around, only to find herself looking at Boromir.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to startle you, my lady."

It took a moment for Míriel to recover. "No, it is all right. I did not know anyone else was here."

He nodded and then shrugged, but did not speak, watching the keep as she herself had been doing. His face was partly in shadows, and she could not quite make out his expression; but just then, he turned around, and as she met his gaze, she noted something in it that she could not quite understand, but neither could she look away. He seemed to her very proud, and yet very sad. _Great and noble and sad. Like Túrin Turambar._

The thought made her shiver, and she decided to break the silence around them. But before she could speak, he spoke instead. His voice was soft, very quiet.

"You did not tell me you were Lord Angbor's daughter."

"You did not ask, my lord."

He chuckled softly at this. "Very true. It pays to ask the proper questions, does it not?"

"Yes, it does." _If I had not asked about the keep just now, you would not have spoken to me at all! _"You were saying? About the keep? Why it's built so strangely."

"Ah, it seems strange to you, because you think of it only as a house. And it is that. But when it was first built, it was also a fortification."

He had turned away again, and when the moonlight caught his face, she could see the change in his expression from polite but distant amusement to a sort of fierce pride. His voice too was stronger now, and he spoke with great certainty.

"The sides facing the Sea have windows so that men may see attack ships well before they make landfall. The other sides have none, for those walls are meant to ward off the enemy. They are made smooth so none can climb them."

He pointed up to the top of the walls. "See? Those are ramparts, where guardsmen would stand and act as lookouts if an enemy approached from the north or the east."

"I did not know that Dol Amroth had ever been attacked."

"No. Dol Amroth has been fortunate in that respect." Míriel thought she heard a slight edge of bitterness in Boromir's voice. "Still, the keep was built long ago, even before there was a Prince here, and perhaps there was a true threat to Dol Amroth then."

"Where did you learn all this, my lord?"

"From a book, my lady." He met her eyes for a moment and then smiled at her, sadness and bitterness leaving his face. "A book without pictures."

She giggled a little. "Ah, not a very interesting book, then, my lord."

"No, I'm afraid not." He paused, hesitating. "And. . .you should call me Boromir."

"Only if you call me by name in turn."

He nodded, as if to assure her he would, and then was silent for a long moment. "You should return to the hall, my lady . . . Míriel. It is getting late, and you are here alone. Your family might worry."

She doubted they would worry too much, knowing her penchant for wandering within the keep's walls, but she did not wish to argue with Boromir. She did not particularly want to leave him yet either, so she held out her hand to him. "Will you walk me back to the keep, then?"

He did not take her hand, but instead politely gave her his arm, and they made their way back. At the doorway from the gardens back into the keep, he pulled away from her and gestured politely at the door.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Ah, I'm afraid not, my lady. I set out early on the morrow for Minas Tirith."

This disappointed Míriel. It would have been pleasant to take a few more garden walks with him. _To find out what else he knows of the world, at least._ "I am sorry you are leaving us so soon. But I wish you a safe journey. Good night, Boromir."

"Good night, Míriel."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_Minas Tirith, early November 3011 TA_

Boromir jumped off his mount, handing the reins to one of his men. He was dirty and very tired, and a cold wind blowing in from the north cut into his skin and made his eyes water. He was, however, far from dispirited as he began the climb to the upper levels of the City. The turrets of the Citadel loomed ahead, forming a silvery silhouette against the darkening winter sky. As always, the sight of the City filled Boromir with great awe and pride, his weariness falling away at the thought of finally being home.

The journey from Dol Amroth had been interesting. Boromir had traveled the length and breadth of the realm many times before, but this time, he had made a point of stopping in many of the smaller cities in the south, making sure to speak to people and ask after their concerns, trying to see Gondor not just as a soldier, but through the eyes of a ruler. It had been different from walking through the City, where all knew and loved him but rarely paid him much attention. In these small outposts, Boromir had been greeted like a hero, a well-loved prince as if just returned from battle. This part of the journey had been Faramir's idea, and though Boromir had been reluctant at first, he had to admit Faramir was right. He had learned much about parts of the realm that he had not known before, and the people had been reminded who looked after their welfare.

Boromir was almost as far as the Citadel when he was stopped by a messenger from the Tower.

"The Steward sends word, Captain. He wishes you to see him on the morrow, at six bells, and asks that you have your reports ready for him then."

Boromir nodded, dismissing the messenger as he crossed the short distance to the Steward's house. He was a little surprised that his father did not want to see him immediately, but also glad that he had a few hours to wash and rest. _And dream_...

----

Boromir was on his way down to the third circle. It was good to be clean again, and he had managed a few hours of restful sleep. He had considered working on his reports for the morning meeting with Denethor, but then he had spied the note, a hastily folded scrap slipped under his door.

_There is a stench in the air, so you must be back. I will be at The Keys when you are through being a slug-a-bed._

There was only one person in Gondor who could have written the note, and the thought of meeting Faramir at their favorite tavern was more than sufficient to make Boromir forget all about his reports. Boromir hummed softly to himself as he trotted down the street, nodding politely to those who stopped to greet him, but not stopping to speak to anyone until he reached the tavern.

Boromir pushed open the heavy wooden door, and entered a small, dimly lit room with low ceilings, simple wooden furniture, and sawdust covering the floor. It was not in the least bit grand, but The King and the Keys was one of the City's oldest establishments, famed for both the quality of its ale and the sharp tongue of its owner. Mistress Almiel had been the tavern's brewmistress for as long as Boromir could remember, and she treated Boromir and Faramir exactly as she did her other patrons, with great disdain, which suited the brothers just fine.

"Ah, Captain! You are returned from your sojourn."

"Aye, Mistress, and it will please you to know that I have traveled all over the realm, but have not yet had a brew to rival your own!"

"Flattery will not save you, Captain. You still have to pay for what you drink. And what that brother of yours drinks as well!" She pointed her chin at a table in the corner where Faramir was sitting, apparently having finished a large plate of food and the better part of two tankards of ale.

"I see you started without me, brother."

Faramir grinned in response and lifted his tankard in a mock salute. "I bought this one for you, but you were late. Your loss."

Boromir chuckled, dragging a chair over to the table and waving down one of the tavern maids to bring him his ale.

"When did you arrive, Faramir? I thought you were in Ithilien!"

"I was, but I came about ten days ago...you know how Father is."

Boromir nodded. Denethor liked to have at least one of his sons no more than a short ride away at all times. With Boromir away in the south, Faramir would have been summoned back to the City, to be on hand for whatever tasks Denethor needed help with.

"I thought it a good time to return anyhow. Supplies are low in Ithilien, and I want to make sure the men are provided for before the weather turns. But leave that! Tell me of Dol Amroth!"

"Dol Amroth is a city in Belfalas, along the . . ."

Boromir had to stop when Faramir kicked him not-so-gently in the shin. "All right, all right. All is well with Uncle and his family. Lothíriel is grown since you last saw her, and she talks and talks, about everything!"

Faramir laughed. "And what of Grandmother? Is she well?"

"Yes, she's just fine. Her usual self, although I suspect she misses Grandfather a great deal." Boromir paused for effect, and gave Faramir a wide grin. "Oh, and she wishes you to be married soon."

Faramir almost spat out a mouthful of ale. "Me? To be married soon? Did she really say that?"

It was funny to see Faramir's discomfiture, but Boromir sighed, suspecting he could not prolong the jest more. "No. In truth, she wishes _me_ to be married soon."

Faramir nodded, but did not respond immediately, making Boromir uneasy.

"Think you that I should marry, then, Faramir?"

"I think," Faramir paused, rubbing his chin as he pondered the question. "I think you should do as you wish."

Boromir glared at him. "That's a very helpful answer."

Faramir ignored him and continued, "But you have naught to worry about at any rate, for no lady in her right mind would have you!"

Boromir kicked Faramir under the table, and Faramir made a great show of yelping and pretending to be hurt, drawing the attention of the few others in the tavern. "When you are through acting the fool, tell me what has passed in the City since I left."

"Naught of importance. The harvests have been good this year, and I expect we may be sending grain to some of the other fiefs. . ."

Boromir let Faramir speak, content to just listen and observe those around him. There were not many patrons in the tavern, mostly soldiers talking quietly to one another. A few were from the garrison at Osgiliath, and they nodded in his direction and then went about their business. The tavern maid who had served them was wearing a plain woolen dress, almost exactly like the one Míriel had been wearing when he first saw her. _Míriel . . . _

The thought of her made Boromir feel oddly happy, a sort of untainted joy he had not felt since he was a child. He thought now of their meeting in the gardens, and of the one moment when she had looked into his eyes, and into his heart, and seen all that he was; of how when he had finally met her gaze, he had seen things he had not imagined.

…_The tremulous starlight of the skies __  
__was caught and mirrored in her eyes._

He smiled to himself, wondering if he had only dreamt it all, and only then realized he was no longer paying attention to Faramir.

His brother was watching him intently, a strange expression on his face. "Boromir, are you . . . I mean, did you . . .?" Faramir shook his head, as if to clear his mind. "Is there . . . is there something you wish to tell me?"

_Does he know? No, he cannot. It is not possible._ "No . . . it is nothing. I think I am still a bit weary from the long journey."

Faramir fixed him with a stare, his expression reminding Boromir keenly of their father, but then he shrugged and added, "Perhaps we should return to the house, then. I leave for Ithilien on the morrow, and if I am drunk and tired, it will be a long day!" He rose, pushing his chair away from the table and leaving coin for his dinner and their ale.

Boromir stood, pulling on his cloak. "Aye, and for my part, I have to meet with the Steward in the morning and still have reports to write. Will you be joining us?"

"Yes, I think so. After all, I can hardly go without taking my leave of him, and I should like to hear what you have to say."

Faramir stopped as they were leaving the tavern, a smile on his face. "Boromir, will there be breakfast, do you think?"

Boromir laughed. Faramir was widely accounted the hungriest man in all of Minas Tirith. "He said naught about that, but I doubt he will turn us away without food!"

They left the tavern and headed back to the Steward's house, their voices and laughter mingling with the cold night air.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Boromir trotted down the street, a few steps behind his brother. They were headed to the first circle so Faramir could collect messages before riding off to Ithilien. They had met with Denethor over breakfast to discuss Boromir's trip to Dol Amroth. He had spoken in particular of Lord Angbor's plan to move some of his soldiers from Lamedon to Pelargir, thus allowing Gondor's strength to be rotated through the other garrisons. Denethor had asked a few questions here and there to clarify things, and sometimes, Boromir suspected, in doubt of the proposal. At length, however, Denethor had agreed that the plan merited further discussion when Gondor's lords convened for the year-end council.

Faramir had been mostly silent through the interview, only speaking when asked, and although he had agreed to Boromir accompanying him to the City gates, he remained pensive as they made their way down to the City's lower circles.

"I take it you do not approve of Angbor's plan, then?" Boromir spoke the words to Faramir's back, making his brother stop and wait for him to catch up.

Faramir smiled thinly. "No, it is not that I do not approve. It seems like a good plan on its face. It is just . . . I wonder if there is no more to it."

"More?" Boromir was perplexed. He had considered the plan many times, and seen nothing particularly wrong with it.

"Do you not wonder at Angbor's generosity? Do you not think that he might . . . do you not wonder if there is a stick to the carrot?"

"Why? We've never had reason to question the loyalty of Lamedon before."

"No, indeed we have not. But though a lord is loyal, still he may look to what he may gain. I wonder only what Angbor seeks to gain."

Boromir stopped walking and fixed Faramir with his stare. "Do you wonder just at that? Or do you wonder that I am not more concerned about it?"

Faramir shook his head and sighed heavily, but said nothing.

"You think I do not understand politics?" He continued staring Faramir down, challenging him to answer.

Faramir did not hesitate. "No, Boromir. I think you do not understand power."

Boromir was about to protest, but Faramir clapped him on the shoulder. "It is no matter, brother. We shall have to save this quarrel for another time. I must be off now." They walked the rest of the way to the first circle in relative silence.

"Will you be back for the year-end council, Faramir?"

"I don't know, but I think not. There is more need for you to attend anyhow, with news of the south."

"What about mettarë?" It had been years since Boromir had spent the holiday with his brother, their duties often keeping them apart at year-end.

"I shall try, although much will depend on how things are in Ithilien. I have been away too long as it is."

"Well, I shall hope to see you then again anyhow. Be well, brother." Boromir gave Faramir a kiss on the forehead, and then, with a short nod and a wave, Faramir headed off to the stables.

---

Boromir made his way slowly back to the Citadel, enjoying all the sights and sounds of Minas Tirith. As a younger man serving with the Tower Guard, he had discovered strange and interesting aspects of the City and had ached to explore it further. He had often walked through the narrow back alleys of the first and second circles, talking to merchants and farmers, drinking in alehouses where nobody appeared to recognize him.

Halfway to the third circle, the streets began to broaden out a little, and the shops and alehouses made way for the homes of the City's craftsmen, their smithies and workshops. Boromir had not been this way in more than a year, and he was suddenly reminded of someone he had not visited in as long a time. Determined to remedy that situation, Boromir made his way to an older street near where the third circle's gate stood. A little ways from the gate and down a small alley, he discovered the house he was looking for.

At first, there was no answer to Boromir's tentative rap on the door, but after a few moments, the door finally opened. The woman who opened it could not have been more surprised.

"Boromir! What a wonderful surprise!" Rían threw her arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Indeed, sister. It has been far too long." In truth, Rían was not his sister, but rather the daughter of Denethor's sister. She was three years older than Boromir, and he suspected, far more wise. When they were children, she had been their constant companion and Faramir and Boromir had come to look on her as a sister.

"Well, I am glad then that the time has finally come for you to pay a visit. Come in!" She pulled Boromir out of the doorway and into the house.

The house was small and well lit, with spots of dull winter sun dappling the walls here and there. The furnishings were spare, but welcoming, and Boromir felt as if he were returning home after a long time afield.

"I am sorry I have not been to visit you in so long, Rían. There have been other . . ."

"No, Boromir, there is no need for excuses. I know how things are."

Rían was an only child, and her parents had doted on her, fulfilling her every whim and desire. But three years ago, she had wed a man who was neither noble nor wealthy, and earned her parents' eternal wrath. Targon was a soldier in Pelargir and second to the captain of that garrison. Boromir knew him well, and knew him to be a good man, both brave and kind. Rían had met Targon in Boromir's company and the two had become friends, but Boromir had not expected any affection to grow between them, and the discovery had shocked him. Boromir knew that his aunt still held him responsible for Rían's marriage, but as far as he knew, Rían was not apologetic, and had not spoken to her mother in almost two years.

"What news of Targon? Is he well?"

"Well enough for a soldier, I suppose. I only get letters when the messengers come to the City from the south, which is not often."

Boromir had never been to Rían's house before, and though the soldier in him was used to plain surroundings, it made him a little unhappy to see Rían living in a small and cramped house, far different from the wealth and comfort she was used to as a young maiden. _It is not right_.

"I can have Targon brought north, you know. To Osgiliath, or even here, to Minas Tirith. You need only ask, and I should be glad to do it."

She watched Boromir intently, but did not say anything, so he continued.

"Or I could have him promoted, make him captain of a garrison, and with the greater rank, perhaps you could move to . . . a bigger place, a nicer place in . . ."

Rían interrupted him, her voice now quiet but clipped, and her face pale. "What is wrong with this house? Does it not suit you?"

Boromir recoiled, surprised at her sudden anger. "No, it is not that. But you are the granddaughter of a Steward, a daughter of a great and noble house. . ."

"No, Boromir. I am a woman wed and belong only to my husband's house. I have no use for a house that did not wish him."

"You are too stubborn, Rían. You have too much pride."

"Pride? It was my dower gift from the House of Húrin! Would you have me give it up?"

Boromir lowered his head, shamed by her words, and wishing he had not come to see her. "I'm sorry, sister. I did not mean anything. I only wish for you to be happy."

She said nothing, and to Boromir, the silence seemed to last forever. Finally, she spoke, her voice still quiet, but without the anger of a few moments before. "I am happy, Boromir. I have everything I could wish for. I have Targon."

"You don't regret . . . you don't miss your old life?"

"I miss my mother and my father, but other than that, no. There is naught missing from this life. Wealth and comfort are such small things to give in exchange for love."

Boromir nodded and then gave her a quick embrace. "I am glad that you are happy. I hope you believe that."

She pushed him away and swatted his arm. "You are silly, Boromir. Faramir is right. You don't have even an ounce of good sense."

Boromir smiled, glad that she was less angry now. "Don't believe everything Faramir tells you. He lies sometimes, you know."

She laughed, and conversation continued in a similar vein for the rest of Boromir's visit. As Boromir left her house and made his way back to the Citadel, Rían's words returned to him. _Such small things to give in exchange for love. What would I give in exchange for Míriel?_

_Míriel . . ._ _I wonder what she will say when I see her next_.

The thought made him stop in his tracks. _What if I never see her again?_

This saddened him, and unconsciously, he lifted a hand to his chest, wondering at the dull ache that now clouded the joy he felt when thinking of her.  
_  
And now his heart was healed and slain  
with a new life and with new pain._

---  
_  
Osgiliath, late November_

"Captain. Welcome back."

"Thank you, Brandir."

Boromir had arrived at the garrison an hour ago, and after making sure that message riders were sent to Cair Andros and to the garrison in Anórien, he had asked to meet his two lieutenants.

Brandir was his second, and had served with Boromir for as long as Boromir had been a soldier. He could rely on Brandir to be blunt and painfully honest with him, no matter what the situation. The other lieutenant was, by tradition, the garrison surgeon, responsible for treating the soldiers' war wounds. The current surgeon was Hador, who was very young, but very skillful and extremely sure of himself. This suited Boromir well, for he could not abide dithering among his officers.

"I have been gone for a long while. Is there anything I should know of?"

"Not much has happened, although we have been kept somewhat busy." Brandir made a gesture in the direction of the east. "There have been a few skirmishes here and there, along the bridge, and further east."

Boromir nodded. It was common for orcs to attack more frequently when the weather turned cold. It was a good strategy, for the creatures did not feel the cold, but Gondor's armies did. There was naught to be done about it, other than to be prepared and to make sure the garrisons were properly provisioned and outfitted.

"There have been reports of similar attacks in the north, in Anórien, near the Mouths of the Onodló. Sweep riders from Rohan claim orcs have been spotted north of the river as well."

Boromir nodded, glancing briefly at the rough maps Brandir had drawn. _So we are surrounded, east, north and south. So be it._ "I think we will need to increase strength in Anórien, and at Cair Andros somehow. Perhaps we can draw men from the Rangers as well. Have a list made up, Brandir, of men who may be moved north, from here or from one of the other garrisons."

He turned to Hador next, knowing the man would have a detailed list of concerns to discuss with him, as he always did. "For now, Hador, I need to know only if we are properly provisioned for the winter months."

"There is food enough here to last for several weeks, my lord, but if the weather turns colder, we will need warmer cloaks for the men, and blankets, and more candles, and . . ."

"Then you have a list made up as well, and I shall put in a request for immediate provisions with the Lord Steward. Make the list as detailed as possible." Boromir stood, signaling that the meeting was over as far as he was concerned.

"Very well, Captain. I do have one other request. It would be good if a healer could be brought here from the City."

"Why? Is there some sickness here? Do any men need to be sent back?"

"No, it is not that. Just a precaution against any sickness that the cold may bring. I can mend the men's cuts, but I cannot heal their sickness."

"I shall keep that in mind, Hador. Thank you." Hador nodded, and then bowed and left Boromir to the silence and the night.

It was very dark on this night, the moon only a pale sliver in the sky. It was also very quiet, and Boromir was glad, for it gave him a chance to think. He considered how best to rotate his men around the various garrisons to protect against the next round of attacks in the north and the east. _And now, there is the south to worry about as well._ He wondered if the new attacks in Osgiliath and Anórien were mere distractions, intended to draw Gondor's attention away from the south.

Angbor's offer of additional men for Pelargir seemed extremely timely to Boromir, now that more of Gondor's soldiers were needed elsewhere. But Faramir's earlier words about politics and power gnawed at him, making him doubt whether he had considered all facets of the situation.  
_  
It does not matter. What is it to me what Angbor will gain? I am Captain-General of Gondor, and I am charged with the defense of Gondor. It is my duty to defeat the Enemy, not to concern myself with princely matters of politics and powers. It will take strategy, not statecraft, to defeat the Fiend. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 **

_Calembel, late November, 3011 TA_

Míriel slid out of the saddle and took the reins, leading the horse off the road. She and Hathol had come out to ride at sunrise, as they often did at home in Calembel. The ride was particularly enjoyable for Míriel, who had not been riding for a long time. The time spent in Dol Amroth had been exciting enough. The people on the coast knew how to enjoy themselves, and she had met many an interesting person. _Including Boromir_. She smiled a little at the thought of him, but then decided this was not the time for daydreams. _Still, after more than a fortnight of dreaming in Belfalas, it's good to be home finally, where everything is real_. She gave her brother a sidelong glance and wondered if he was as glad to be home.

They had ridden for almost an hour, and now they were slowly making their way back to the stables, walking the horses to rest them for a bit.

"What do you intend to do the rest of the day, brother?"

Hathol pulled a face and tried his best to look grave and serious. "I imagine Father will want me to attend him. He plans to go over the year's ledgers with the master of monies." He rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh, making Míriel laugh.

"Well, I think you have the better of it. Mother has been on about dressmakers for the past week. You would think we had absolutely nothing to wear!"

"Well, I expect you'll need fancier dresses soon." He hesitated a little, and then continued. "For when we go to Minas Tirith in a week."

"Minas Tirith? Why would you go there?" She stopped walking the horse and turned on him. "Why would _I_ go there?"

Hathol shrugged. "Father plans to attend the year-end council with the Steward, and he thinks it would be good for his heir to begin training in matters of state, I suppose. As for why you go there, I cannot say." His tone was even and his expression betrayed nothing, but there was a mischievous look in his eyes that he could not hide.

"What do you know that you do not tell me?"

"Oh, you are not so simple that you need this explained to you, Míriel!"

_So they wish me to marry, then?_ The thought annoyed her, but it upset her more that nobody had thought to ask her feelings on the matter.

Hathol's horse nickered and he brought the horse around, stopping a bit ahead and waiting for Míriel to catch up.

"It is not just what you think. I think Father does not want you here alone. There are others things afoot, I think. Maybe a battle."

She turned to face him, shocked at the thought of an actual battle that her father and brother would be in. But Hathol seemed more excited by the prospect of battle than frightened by it, and this troubled her. _He is too young for battle! Only three-and-twenty._ She tried to make light of the matter to dispel her discomfiture.

"You are such a boy, Hathol. . . always wanting to run off and fight. Always wanting to be a soldier."

"And what's so terrible about being a soldier?"

"Nothing, I suppose. But soldiers always seem so. . . so dull. I expect most of them have not read a book since they first learned their letters!"

At this, Hathol laughed. "Very well, then. When I go into battle, be sure to give me a book, so that I will not appear dull." He dodged, neatly avoiding her attempt to cuff him. "Only, sister, be sure to make it a very heavy book, so that I can at least club my enemy over the head with it!"

---

She sat on a cushioned bench near a window, reading a book. This was Míriel's favorite afternoon pastime, and ordinarily, a good book could keep her occupied for hours. But today, she had barely managed two pages. Her mind wandered, preoccupied with the upcoming trip, and whether she was indeed to be matched.

The more she thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that her parents would expect her to marry now, especially as they had not spoken of it ever before. Still, they had not told her about the trip to the City either, and she had not yet mustered up the courage to ask them about it herself.

She had to admit that a trip to Minas Tirith did sound rather exciting. She loved Calembel, where everything was warm and familiar, but sometimes it also bored her. _I have been almost everywhere here, and seen almost everything_. The City would be a huge change for her. She had read of it before, of its great size and its grand towers, but she had never seen it. She wondered about the people of the City, those who called it their home.

_Boromir lives in Minas Tirith_. That she thought of him now did not surprise her in the least. In truth, thoughts of Boromir came to her often. She had found that odd at first, for she barely knew him and had spoken to him only briefly. Still, she could not shake the feeling that something had passed between them that night in the gardens, that she had seen something in his eyes . . . .

_No, this is silly, it is only a fantasy, it is only in your own mind_. Boromir was more like the dashing princes in those romantic stories, who slew dragons and rode off into the sunset with the beautiful maiden. As a young girl, she had read many such books and had often imagined herself in love with the prince, only to find herself in love with a different prince from a different book a few weeks later. _But Boromir is not a creature from a book; he is real. And I don't wish to see him again, for it will only draw me further into all this silliness! _She resolved to talk her parents out of taking her to Minas Tirith.

---

Míriel watched her father intently as he sat at his desk, writing something. It was very quiet in Angbor's study, the scratching of the quill against paper the only sound. She had been determined to tell her father that she did not want to go to Minas Tirith, but now, faced with the actual prospect, she felt uncertain. She knew her father to be a reasonable man, but also a strict one, and she did not want to displease him.

She cleared her throat, making Angbor look up. He gave her an inquiring glance and then returned his attention to his task. "Is it not very late, Míriel? I thought you would have retired already."

"Yes, Father. But I wished to speak to you about . . . about something important."

"Oh?" He looked at her curiously and then stood and walked around the desk. "In that case, you shall have my full attention." He pulled over a chair for himself by the fire and waved Míriel into his usual seat, a well-worn armchair. "What is this important matter, then?"

"Hathol says that I go . . . that we all go to Minas Tirith for year-end."

"Yes. I go every year, and I thought it wise to take my family this time. You do not approve?"

Míriel shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if her father were indulging her and mocking her at the same time. This made her a little indignant, which was good, for it helped her to speak her mind.

"Why was I not told before this? If Hathol had not mentioned it, I would not have known until I was bundled into a wagon for the journey!"

Angbor did not answer immediately, but stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I did not know that you had not been told. But the entire house has been in an uproar over the voyage for at least a week now. Have you not noticed?"

"I admit that my attention has been on . . . has been elsewhere. You should have . . ."

Angbor held up a hand to silence her. "You wish only to complain that we did not inform you earlier? If so, then I am sorry, and I apologize on your mother's behalf as well." He finished speaking and raised an eyebrow at her, as if to ask if that were all.

She steeled herself to make her request. "Father, I . . . IdontwishtogototheCity." She was nervous, and the words came out in a rush.

"What? You don't wish to go? Well, why not?"

_What do I say now?_ She cast about for some reasonable excuse, but could think of none. "I am happy here. And it is too cold in the City this time of year anyhow."

Angbor chuckled. "That is true, but we shall be sure to take warm cloaks and blankets with us. Besides, I think you will like the City. It is very festive at year-end, with a great many feasts and celebrations. Young people usually enjoy it, Míriel. Perhaps you will even meet someone who takes your fancy."

_So we have come to it finally_. "So I am to be matched, then? You wish me to find someone in the City and marry him?"

"No. Unless a suitable match should present itself, of course."

"A suitable match? I don't wish to just go off and betroth myself to the first _suitable_ man I see, the first wealthy lord I see!" She was angry now, and she wished her father to know it.

His eyes narrowed, and he gave her a long, stern look. "Your impertinence surprises me. But I am more surprised that you think me a horse trader who will simply allow you to go to the man with the heaviest purse."

Míriel dropped her gaze, now a little ashamed at herself. "No, Father. I'm sorry. I did not mean . . ." She found it hard to speak, worried that she would begin crying.

Angbor spoke now, his voice softer, less stern. "We would never force you to marry; indeed we would never force you to do anything against your will. We wish only to encourage you in a match. You know that." He sighed. "But I think marriage is not so terrible a thing. You should not fear it so much."

"But why do I have to be married? I am happy here. This is my home."

"You cannot always remain a maid, Míriel. What will you do with your life, if you never marry? Will you remain here, to live out your days as Hathol's spinster sister? To wait on his wife, who will be the lady here? I think that life would not suit you so well."

"I don't have to go to the City to marry. Could I not marry someone here, in Lamedon?"

Angbor smiled, but shook his head. "Who would you marry here? A merchant? A farmer, or a shepherd?"

Míriel thought about these prospects for a moment. "I could always just marry the stable boy."

Angbor looked at her, aghast. And then he threw back his head and laughed. "I hope you do not marry the stable boy. But I would not refuse it, if that were your heart's desire."

Míriel did not particularly want to think about her heart's desire. "So I shall have to come with you all, to Minas Tirith? I don't think I will enjoy it very much."

Angbor nodded. "Yes. You shall have to come. But I'll compromise with you. I will not require you to enjoy it even one bit. "


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Minas Tirith, mid-December 3011 TA_

Míriel absently pushed the porridge around her plate, not really interested in eating. She and Mírwen had spent much of the past few days helping two servants set the house to rights, and she was tired from the effort. Having to sleep in a strange bed in a new place had not helped. She stifled a yawn and wondered idly what she would do with the day. _Perhaps the Archives? Or to a bookseller's?_

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a spoon clanging heavily against an empty bowl. She looked up and frowned at Hathol. It irked her that he seemed cheerful and well-rested.

"I'm off, then." Hathol spoke as he grabbed a hunk of coarse bread off the table.

"Oh? Where are you off to?"

"Practice yards. In the first circle." He spoke between mouthfuls, making Míriel wonder that she could understand him at all.

"You're a pig, brother. I hope you fight more neatly than you eat." Hathol rolled his eyes in response and rose to leave, brushing off a few breadcrumbs from his tunic.

"The first circle, is it? Maybe I'll go with you."

"No! Er…I mean, you would find it dull at the practice yards, wouldn't you?"

She shrugged. "Maybe, but there are other things to see in the City."

He did not seem convinced by this, but sighed in resignation. "Fine, then. Come if you like, but be quick about it."

Míriel gave him her brightest smile and rushed off to dress for a walk in the City.

---

The City was big, larger and noisier than any place Míriel had visited before. The first circle was different from the other circles, and featured several large horse stables and smithies and small shops selling metal and earthenware, in addition to a tavern or two and barracks for the soldiers of Minas Tirith. She had walked leisurely, taking in the sights and smells of the place, but ultimately, the sounds of men at swordplay had drawn her to the practice yards, and she now stood behind a long stretch of rope that sectioned off the yards, and watching Hathol spar with an older man of the City. She had seen her brother at sword practice before and knew him to be quick; but he seemed very slight compared to his opponent, and she wondered that he was able to keep pace. "Oh! Be careful!"

"Well met, my lady."

The sound came from somewhere behind her, and she turned, only to find herself facing Boromir. She was slightly stunned that he had managed to sneak up on her a second time in their very brief acquaintance.

"Er, yes. Well met, my lord."

"You are well? I trust the journey was not too taxing." His manner was formal, but he did not have the lordly air he had borne the last time she had seen him. He was dressed simply too, with a sword and a short knife tucked into his sword belt as the only adornments to his plain soldier's garb. His boots were covered with dust and sand, and she suspected that Boromir too had been in the yards.

"No, the journey was fine. We arrived three days ago, and Father was glad there were no storms."

Boromir nodded and then politely turned to face the yards. "Your brother is a good swordsman, very quick on his feet."

"Really? He seems so thin."

He chuckled. "He is still young. He will grow into himself soon enough."

She shrugged, unsure of what else to make of Boromir's words. An awkward moment of silence fell on them as she cast about for things to say.

But Boromir spoke before she did. "You are very fond of your brother."

"I am! He's very clever and very brave. But he can also be a bit of a bother sometimes."

Boromir looked thoughtful, and then nodded. "Yes, little brothers can be like that."

She giggled. "You speak of your own brother, my lord? Where is he?"

"Boromir, remember? And my brother is in the field. In Ithilien." She waited for him to say more, but he was quiet now, a faraway look on his face, and she assumed he did not wish to speak of his brother anymore.

"I think, my lord . . . Boromir . . . that I shall return home now. My mother will be wondering what business I have in the practice yards!"

Boromir nodded and then added, "You have never done anything with arms? No training?"

"No. Why? Do the women of the City learn swords?"

"No, not swords. But some women do learn to use small bows." He pointed to his right, where there were a series of targets set up for archery. "Mostly just target practice." She shrugged and shook her head. Boromir seemed disappointed by her lack of interest in martial pursuits, but he also seemed to be mocking her, and that was simply too much for Míriel. _I don't wish for him to think less of me!_

"You know, I have never practiced with a sword or a bow, but I can do something else." She paused for effect and noted the expression of interest on his face. "I can throw a knife to hit a target at forty paces."

This seemed to surprise Boromir, for he raised an eyebrow at her, and then his face broke into a broad smile.

"I should like to see that. Please show me." He nudged her elbow gently, leading her to the archery targets.

It was Míriel's turn to be surprised. "I…I don't have a knife with me. Perhaps another time?"

He was undeterred, pulling his own knife out of its sheath and holding it out to her. He inclined his head politely and waved her in the direction of the first target, about thirty paces away.

She took the proffered knife nervously, cursing herself for being every manner of fool. The knife was old, the hilt a dark metal with a silver etching of a single star. She ran her fingers over the shape, wondering if the knife was some sort of heirloom carried by Boromir's ancestors into battle. Suddenly, the knife seemed very heavy to Míriel, as if weighed down with the burdens of fate and doom. _Master of Doom, by Doom mastered._ She shivered, and her distaste for the knife became overwhelming.

_Throw it and be done with it!_ She pulled the knife up to her shoulder and heaved it at the target. It fell to the ground, ten feet short of the mark and well wide.

Boromir was quiet, and from his expression she could not tell if he was disappointed or displeased. He retrieved the knife and stuck it back in its leather sheath.

"Perhaps you would have done better with your own knife?"

"No, it is not the knife." She gave him a sheepish smile. "I cannot throw. I made it all up. I am sorry."

Boromir looked slightly appalled, but then he began to laugh, a real laugh rather than just the polite chuckles she had heard from him before. "It is no matter at all. I am certain there are others things you are very good at."

She blushed at the unexpected compliment and looked away to hide her expression, surprised at herself. _Stop being a silly girl!_

"Do you like to ride, my lady?"

"Ride? As in a horse?"

He laughed again. "Yes, a horse. Unless you would prefer a mule."

She caught the slight hint of mockery in his voice, but felt that she deserved as much for acting like a fool.

"If you like, we could go riding." He was no longer mocking, and his voice had taken on a quiet and shy tone.

"Yes. I should like that."

Boromir seemed pleased. "Then I shall see you here, day after next. At nine bells?"

---

Boromir drew his horse up short, making Míriel follow suit. They were just outside the low walls of a small village on the Pelennor, after riding out of the City for only a short while. She could see a row of riding posts just ahead, and expected they would be leaving the horses.

Boromir seemed to read her thoughts. "We will have to leave the horses here and walk the rest of the way, I think."

She nodded and slid off the horse, leading it to a post, but Boromir shook his head and took the lead from her. She was about to protest, but she suspected he was only being polite, so she said nothing and was content to just watch Boromir tie up the horses.

"Why are we going to this village, my lord . . . er, Boromir?"

Boromir smiled. "This village is one of the oldest in all of Gondor. At year-end, they have a grand market here. Tradesmen from all over the realm come here to sell their wares."

He paused and then added shyly, "I thought perhaps you would enjoy seeing it."

She laughed. "Yes, very much. I think markets are wonderful."

They spoke as they walked, and soon they were well into the village and nearing the square where the market was held. They were close enough now that Míriel could see that the square was festooned with colorful banners and flags, and boughs of holly hung here and there. The market itself was a riot of sounds and smells, people of all walks of life busy with their buying and selling. She had been to markets in Lamedon many times, but those were small and unadorned, and seemed to pale in comparison to this one.

They stopped at a stall selling brightly-colored shawls and rugs that had drawn Míriel's attention. The goodwife selling the shawls recognized Boromir, and was eager to sell Míriel something while she was in his company. "You'll never see anything like this in all of Gondor, my lady. It comes all the way from Far Harad, it does."

_Far Harad!_ Míriel was genuinely surprised, but Boromir seemed skeptical and gently led Míriel away from the shawl seller's.

"I think the dyes may be from Harad, but that looks like Gondor cloth to me."

"Could be. I think she just wanted to impress the High Warden."

Boromir chuckled. "Aye, or she just wanted the High Warden's coin."

"How do you know the cloth is not from Harad anyhow? Have you been there?"

Boromir shook his head. "No, but I have heard much about life in those lands." He became thoughtful, so Míriel spoke instead.

"I have heard much about Harad as well. Do you know that women in Harad wear wooden shoes? And that the shoes do not cover their toes?"

"Really?" Boromir seemed surprised. She suspected he had never heard of shoes being made of anything but leather. "Why not the toes? A shoe that does not cover the foot properly seems. . . a bit useless."

She laughed. "Well, it is very warm in Far Harad, and I think perhaps shoes like that are more comfortable. Oh, and the ladies paint their toenails too!"

Boromir gave her a puzzled look, as if to wonder why anyone would do something as foolish as painting her toenails. "That's strange . . . is it not?"

"Perhaps. I read in a book that women in Harad wear long robes that cover them from head to toe. Their toes are the only part seen by others. Perhaps painted toenails help Haradic maidens find husbands!"

Boromir looked embarrassed at this, and Míriel wondered why she was speaking of husbands and toenails to him. _I'm flirting with him, I suppose._ The thought amused her more than a little, so she allowed herself a small chuckle.

"You are amused at something?"

"I'm just happy, Boromir." She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. "Where shall we go next?"

He smiled and hesitated a little before covering her hand with his own. His hand was warm, and his touch made Míriel feel warm too. She suspected she was blushing, but he seemed not to notice.

"There is a bookseller here, from Anórien. I should like to go to his stall."

"A bookseller?" Míriel was surprised, for Boromir did not seem to be the sort to take too much of an interest in books, even though she had first seen him in a library. "I did not expect that of you."

He looked at her frankly, and then smiled broadly. "Why? Because I'm a brute who has not read a book since I first learned my letters?"

She looked at him in shock, and then dropped his arm, and glared at him angrily. "What else has my scapegrace brother told you?"

"Oh, he said to beware, because your tongue was sharper than most swords." Boromir laughed, obviously very pleased with himself, and Míriel was torn between the urge to embrace him and the urge to cuff him. _Well, I won't embrace him, anyhow! _

"I'm sorry, Boromir. I did not mean that you . . . I mean, I'm sure that you're . . ."

"Peace, Míriel. It is true . . . I am not a great one for books. But this is not that sort of bookseller's, anyhow."

"Oh?"

"It is a mapmaker's shop. And it is the stall on the corner, just there."

He took her hand again and led her to the corner. The stall's makeshift wooden walls were covered with all kinds of charts and maps, the likes of which Míriel had never seen before. There were more maps unfolded and displayed under glass on a table in the front of the stall. Still more maps, old and careworn, were stored in leather folios inside the stall. The mapmaker seemed to recognize Boromir and welcomed him warmly.

"Would you mind if we were to look around a bit, Ciryon?"

"Yes, of course. And I also have something new for you, when you are finished."

Boromir walked into the stall, motioning for Míriel to follow. "Now you shall see Gondor as you have never seen her before." He said it with all the enthusiasm of a conjurer about to show a new trick, and Míriel could not help but be drawn in. Later, she could never be certain if it was the maps, the magic of the village market, or Boromir himself, but she knew herself to be completely enchanted.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Míriel dressed quickly and hurried out of the house, pulling her cloak tightly around herself, for a chill wind had been blowing all morning. She walked briskly, eager to make her way to the third circle where Boromir had asked her to meet him this afternoon. She had thoroughly enjoyed their day at the fair in the village, and had been even more pleased when he had offered to show her around the City two days later. That her pleasure in his company was not entirely innocent was a thought she dismissed quickly. _I will not think about all that just now. _

She was almost to the gates of the circle when she finally noticed Boromir leaning casually against a wall, his cloak flapping in the wind. He was dressed very simply, as any man of the City, only his stance and the deferential manner of the guard at the gate suggesting otherwise. She wondered if she should call out to him, but just then, he turned and noticed her. He caught her eye and smiled, closing the short distance between them.

"Míriel. You are well?" He held out his hand in greeting, and she took it without a moment's thought. His fingers were surprisingly warm as they curled around hers, and she imagined her face was coloring as she fought to suppress the urge to embrace him to see if the rest of him was just as warm.

"So where are we going, Boromir? I should very much like to see Minas Tirith . . . as you see her."

He gave her an odd look, as if that were not quite what he had in mind.

"Hmm. Well, I thought we would go see the Archives here . . . I thought you would like that."

"It's true that I like books a great deal, but I can see the Archives on my own. I'd rather see something else with you, something different."

He nodded and they began walking down to the lower circles.

Boromir's view of the City was fascinating. He was no lore master, and she suspected that if she asked him which of his ancestors had seen the City first built, he would not have known. But the things Boromir did know about the City were not the sort of things that could easily be found in a book or a history.

He showed her how the stone that made up the lower circle walls was a different color, more grey, than the stone used to make the gate arches; how you could see the Rammas Echor, snaking across the land, from almost any part of the City; how the houses in the first and second circles were so close together that their roofs almost touched.

"You know, when Faramir and I were young, we would make our way to the first circle from here, by just jumping from one rooftop to the next."

"Really?" She looked at him incredulously. The rooftops seemed much too high for jumping to be anything but dangerous.

"Yes, really . . . although it was probably a foolish thing for little boys to do. It's a good thing we stopped before we were hurt."

"Why did you stop, then? The wisdom that comes with age?" She raised an eyebrow at him, teasing a little.

He laughed. "No, nothing as grave as all that. One day, one of Faramir's tutors saw us, and told our father. He put a stop to it immediately."

"Just as well, or you might still be doing it today!"

"Yes. In fact . . . perhaps you would like to . . ."

She held up her hand. "No, I don't think so. I'm not fond of broken limbs and such."

He shrugged and gave her a look of mock-disappointment. "I thought that after your knife-throwing exhibition, you would . . ."

She stopped him short by swatting him playfully, and he laughed and led the way into the broad street. As they walked on, Míriel could not help but notice the way in which everyone marked Boromir's presence. Sometimes it was only a polite bow of the head in his direction, and other times, people would stop to greet Boromir, and speak to him at length. Boromir responded to each person politely, always smiling and genial. Watching him brought to mind the statues of the old kings in the Great Hall, and Míriel was keenly reminded of who Boromir really was. _I suppose it is only fair that the people mark the passage of their prince . . .their prince. _For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Míriel was reminded who Boromir really was, and the thought awed her a little.

After they had walked a while, he suggested they stop to eat, and Míriel readily agreed. They entered an old house, which turned out to be a simple place with wooden tables and floors and not much by way of adornment. _A tavern!_ Míriel glanced at Boromir, surprised that he would choose such a simple place rather than something grander, something better suited to his station. But it also pleased her to know that his tastes ran to the simple, that he was being himself, rather than trying to impress her with his rank and stature.

The mistress of the tavern greeted Boromir politely, but raised an eyebrow in surprise when her eyes fell on Míriel, She greeted Míriel with a polite nod on the head, but Míriel could not help noticing the curiosity in the woman's eyes. At the far end of the tavern, two younger men waved raucously in Boromir's direction, but stopped as soon as they saw Boromir's companion. _So Boromir does not bring ladies here, then? Good! _

For Boromir's part, he seemed not to notice anything out of the ordinary, as he led them to a small square table near the tavern's hearth, where a fire was already burning pleasantly. Míriel immediately stuck her hands out in the direction of the fire, but Boromir looked chagrined.

"Forgive me. It just struck me now that you must be quite cold here in the City. I should have brought you to a fire sooner."

"Not at all, although I am very glad you brought me here. I've never been to a proper tavern before!"

Boromir gave her an incredulous look. "Why? Do they not have taverns in Lamedon?"

"Well, of course we have taverns. It's just that . . ." Míriel let her voice trail away, suddenly not interested in explaining to Boromir that her mother did not think taverns were proper places for ladies to be seen.

Boromir waited a few moments for her to finish, but when she said nothing more, he added, "In that case, I think you might find this interesting. And the ale here is the best in the whole City."

He signaled for them to be served, and soon a young tavern maid brought food and ale to their table. The maid was very young, very pretty and apparently very eager to impress Boromir. She smiled broadly in his direction and stood just a little closer to him than was really necessary to perform her task. The wonder was that Boromir did not seem to notice the maid at all. He merely gave her coin for their meal and sent her on her way.

They were both very hungry, and they ate quickly, making idle conversation between bites. Míriel took a big sip of ale from the tankard in front of her, and then another. It had a peculiar but very pleasant taste, and before long, she had emptied almost half of her ale.

She watched Boromir intently for a moment or two, trying to sort out her own feelings, and divine what his might be. _I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty. _"That tavern maid was very pretty, don't you think, Boromir?"

Boromir gave her an odd look, but did not answer.

"Well, I thought she was very pretty. And she obviously thought you were quite handsome."

At this, Boromir managed to look just a little sheepish, a blush creeping up his face. But then he made a dismissive gesture with his hands. "Nonsense, that's just . . ." He reached over, and pulled Míriel's tankard away from her. "I think it's just that you're drinking much too quickly."

She frowned, and then fell silent, wondering if she should risk asking Boromir the other question on her mind. She hesitated, staring at her hands for a moment, and then decided to plunge on. _After all, faint heart never won fair lord! _

"Do you think she's prettier than me?"

Boromir almost choked on his ale, and recovered just enough to look completely appalled at her question. He said nothing for a few moments, and Míriel began to regret her boldness. But then he grinned at her, and said simply, "No, I don't think she's prettier than you." He paused, and his mouth quirked as if he were about to laugh. "She's actually _much_ prettier than you."

Now it was Míriel's turn to be appalled. She looked at him in shock, not sure how to respond. She began to speak, but she was cut off by a loud chuckle from Boromir. His eyes were bright with amusement, and she found herself laughing with him at the silliness of it all.

"Perhaps I did drink a little too fast. I think I might be just a bit drunk."

Boromir shook his head. "No, I doubt it. But a walk will probably do you good anyhow."

They left the tavern and in the street outside, Boromir once again held out his hand to her, and this time when she put her hands in his, they seemed to fit perfectly, as if they had held hands a hundred times before. His eyes locked with hers briefly, as if he too had noted the same thing, and when he smiled warmly at her, she could not help but smile in return, all care banished from her mind. Míriel felt almost giddy, and she wondered that she was able to walk at all in that state.

"Do you want to see the Citadel? The sunset is quite beautiful from there, and it will be almost dusk by the time we reach it."

Míriel nodded, thinking that she would go almost anywhere Boromir wanted her to just now.

--

They had walked slowly up the steep incline of the City's streets towards the Citadell sometimes talking, but mostly in silence, occasionally giving each other sidelong glances and small smiles. For Míriel, the time had passed altogether too quickly.

The sun was beginning to fade by the time they reached the seventh circle. Boromir pointed out the seven towers of the Citadel, with the great Tower of Ecthelion rising like a great mast in the center. He showed her the Hall of Kings and Merethrond, the Hall of Feasts where the nobles of the City would gather soon for _mettarë_.

Eventually Boromir led her down a pathway paved with the whitest stone she had ever seen, towards the Court of the Fountain. There, near the fountain, stood the White Tree. Míriel gasped. It looked like nothing she had imagined, and to see it in front of her eyes, when it had for so long been only a thing in a book filled her with awe and wonder. She bowed her head to the tree, in silent regard for all that it represented. "Boromir, is it not . . ."

But, to her surprise, Boromir had turned away from the tree, towards the east. In the fading light, she could see that his expression had changed completely. He now looked proud, but also a bit fierce, and she knew that his thoughts were no longer on her, but on something else entirely. She waited for him to speak, but he stood still, and it was almost as if she were not there.

"Minas Tirith . . ." She turned the Sindarin words over in her mind, wondering at their meaning, why that name had been chosen for the City. "Tower of Watch. What is it that you watch?"

He looked at her in surprise, as if he had only just realized she was there. "The Enemy."

"Perhaps it is not you who watch Him. Perhaps He watches you instead." She was uncertain why she had spoken the words, and when Boromir turned around to face her, his eyes blazing, she regretted having said anything at all.

"No." He said it simply, as if all discussion were at an end. "Besides, you are wrong on the meaning . . .at least, that is not how we reckon the meaning in the City. It is the Tower of Guard. We guard Gondor from the Enemy."

She nodded, wondering what she could say to make things better. "It is your charge, is it not? To guard us all from the Enemy. Like the kings of old."

This was clearly the wrong thing to say, because far from being mollified, Boromir now seemed genuinely angry.

"No. Not like the kings. We are not kings, after all."

"You are as kings. It does not matter that you are not so called."

"No! In Gondor, not in ten thousand years could a steward become a king. Even if it is our very blood that waters the Tree." He spat the words out, his voice edged with bitterness, and she quailed under his gaze. "But Gondor is more than just a withered tree and the shadow of a king who does not return, and so we guard it, even unto the very end."

She said nothing, frightened by his anger and weary of this new mood of Boromir's. He must have sensed her discomfort, because he stopped speaking, and sighed.

"I . . . forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to speak to you in that way. It is only that . . ."

Míriel shook her head. "No, Boromir. It was my mistake." She gave him a half-smile which she hoped would soothe his anger and her own discomfort. "I should know to hold my tongue sometimes."

Boromir seemed unsure, and gave her a very hesitant smile in return. He held out his hand to her, and she took it, albeit a little reluctantly. He began to speak, but she shook her head.

"No more talk. Let us just watch the sunset."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_Minas Tirith, Mettarë eve_

Boromir shuffled the papers on his desk. He had spent much of the previous two days working on lists and documents for his upcoming journey to Pelargir. He intended to leave with Angbor of Lamedon a week after yestarë, and preparations for the trip were not yet complete. On a corner of his desk rested a small pile of messages that had arrived early that morning. Of particular interest to Boromir were the two messages on top of the pile. The first was from Lady Hareth, who had, in her own mocking way, begged an audience with the Captain-General of Gondor. The other was from Míriel, and Boromir was unsure what to make of it. The note said only that she would see him at the feast in the evening, and its tone made Boromir wonder if Míriel was still angry with him. He was tempted to answer her message, but there were far too many other matters to attend to, and with an effort, Boromir put Míriel out of his mind and returned to his lists.

He was halfway through updating the list of provisions and men that would make the journey to Pelargir when he was interrupted by a knock. A dark head of hair entered the doorway, and a lanky body followed. Boromir smiled, and jumped out of his chair in excitement.

"Faramir! When did you come?"

"This morning. I would have come to see you sooner, but I had to report to the Steward first." Faramir embraced his brother warmly. "What do you work on? Is it for your journey south?"

"Yes, and other things. Indeed, I want to talk to you about the news from the north. From Cair Andros."

"Hmm. The news is of Rohan?"

Boromir nodded. "The dispatches out of the north are troubling. There are reports of strange happenings in the fields at night. And similar things are happening in Anórien as well. What do you make of it?"

Faramir looked thoughtful, and then shrugged. "It is hard to get information out of Rohan these days. Théoden King's advisors keep close watch on what is said and done there."

"Perhaps it is just their old trouble with the Dunlendings?"

"Could be, although something about all this troubles me."

"Aye, and me as well. There are other rumors too."

"Other rumors? Out of Rohan?"

Boromir put a hand to his forehead, trying to make sense of all that he had read that morning. "Yes. Or at least rumors about Rohan." Boromir hesitated. "That the king ails, that there is rebellion among his Marshals." Boromir let his voice trail off. "Indeed, the reports out of Cair Andros even suggest that the Rohirrim pay tribute to Mordor!"

"What? No, it is too strange a thing to be true." Faramir shook his head emphatically. "Do you believe it?"

"No, of course not. The Rohirrim are too stout of heart to do such a thing. Still, that there is such a rumor is troubling in itself."

"Yes, and more, it will sow the seeds of doubt in those who live in Anórien and north of there. We can ill afford such doubt in times like these." Faramir paused. "What does the Steward say?"

"I have not yet discussed the matter with him. I had thought to bring it to your attention first. To see if you had any wisdom to offer." 

Faramir shrugged, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "I have none of my own to offer in this matter, but there are those with much more knowledge."

Boromir pondered this. Although Gondor had a fair number of spies to call on, there were none in Rohan.

"I wish we could send word to Mithrandir, Boromir. Or perhaps even Curunír, since Angrenost is so close to Rohan. And he may know of Mithrandir's whereabouts too." 

"Not a bad idea. I shall think on it, and suggest it to the Steward." It was unlikely that Denethor would accept the advice of either of the two wizards, but Faramir was right to suggest that they, or at least Curunír, would have more information. _After all, 'tis a fool who does not use all the information available to him in times like these._ Boromir considered that perhaps this changed his plans for Pelargir, as more men were needed now in the north, and he reminded himself to reorder his lists accordingly.

"But enough on that. I had a much more important message this morning. Grandmother wishes to see me."

Faramir laughed. They were both fond of the Lady Hareth, but time spent with her easily wore on them. "Does she? Well, you had better take some time to prepare, then!" 

"Oh, I have. And I intend to have reinforcements. You're going with me!"

--

Like many other ancient families of noble blood, the Prince of Dol Amroth maintained a home in Minas Tirith. It was a large house in the fifth circle that had once vied for attention with the houses of the great lords of the City. Now though, with most of the houses of that circle empty, Imrahil's house seemed even larger, if somewhat desolate, by comparison.

An old doorward let Boromir and Faramir into the house, as a servant ran in to announce their arrival to the Lady Hareth, and ushered them into her sitting room.

"Ah, the Captain of Gondor himself. And he brought his second!" Hareth smiled broadly at her grandsons and held out her arms in greeting. Boromir embraced his grandmother and kissed her cheek, feeling great affection for the elderly lady.

Faramir spoke first. "I did not think you would come this year, Grandmother."

"Did Imrahil say something? That I was too old and infirm to travel?" Hareth rolled her eyes dramatically. "I'll have you know I've traveled much further than this, and in much worse weather as well!" 

Boromir snickered, but had to admit inwardly that for all her bluster, she looked more frail and tired every time he saw her. "I'm glad you came. It would not be the same without you, Grandmother." 

"True." Hareth gave him a wink, and then added, "And I would not miss _mettarë_ in the City for anything. There is nothing quite like it in all of Gondor." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes took on a far-away look as she fell silent.

After a few moments, she spoke again. "You know, Finduilas was very fond of _mettarë_."

At this, Boromir perked up. He had always been fond of hearing Hareth's stories about his mother as a child. "Was she? I remember only that she never liked the cold of winter."

"Oh, no, she liked winter. Or at least, she liked snow, and she only ever saw snow here in the City." Hareth seemed to be rambling a little, and Faramir gave Boromir a sidelong glance, as if he were asking if she were all right.

"Yes, Finduilas liked _mettarë_ very much." Hareth turned her attention to Boromir, and now her expression changed and her eyes became very keen. "Did you know that Finduilas and Denethor were betrothed at _mettarë_?" 

Boromir shook his head. He had never thought to ask his father about his betrothal anyhow.

Faramir, though, seemed to have picked up on something, and the look in his eyes was no less keen than in Hareth's. "That is interesting, Grandmother. Would you say that _mettarë_ is a good time of the year for betrothals, then?"

Hareth smiled knowingly. "Oh, yes. The best time of year, in fact. Don't you agree, Boromir?" She arched an eyebrow at him, and he wondered what she knew, whether she had guessed at his feelings.

He tried to think of ways to evade her question. "I . . . I really don't know . . . I really must be going now, Grandmother. I have important things to attend to."

"More important than visiting your grandmother?"

Faramir answered before Boromir could speak. "Yes, as a matter of fact. He was on his way to buy a _mettarë_ gift. For a lady, as it were. Weren't you, brother?"

Boromir glared at Faramir, and made a mental note to repay Faramir in kind one day.

Hareth gave Boromir a sly smile. "Ah, a gift for a special lady, no doubt?"

"Yes, Grandmother. A gift for you. But fear not, I would not leave you here alone. Faramir will keep you company for the rest of the morning!" 

--  
_Mettarë_

Merethrond was at its finest on feast days, especially at year-end, when the Steward's men took great care to decorate the great hall in a manner befitting both its fame and the importance of the occasion. Unlike Merethrond, however, Boromir was dressed simply, in soldier's garb, the Horn of Gondor his only adornment that evening. This was by design, because Denethor discouraged courtly attire, preferring that his sons be seen as soldiers rather than great lords, particularly at times like _mettarë_, when many of Gondor's greatest lords would be present in the City. 

Tonight's feast was already fully under way, and many of the guests had taken to dancing under the hall's starlit dome. Boromir danced with a few ladies, making polite conversation. He was not too fond of dancing, although the soldier in him could appreciate its similarity to sword fighting. He had just finished dancing a rather energetic reel when he felt a gentle nudge at his elbow. It was Míriel.

She was dressed grandly, in a dress of rich fabric shot with golden thread, and Boromir could not recall if she had ever looked more beautiful.

_Her robe was blue as summer skies,  
but grey as evening were her eyes;   
'twas sewn with golden lilies fair,  
but dark as shadow was her hair._

She smiled broadly at him and then pouted. "I'm disappointed. I've been watching you dance all evening, but you have not yet asked me for a dance."

Boromir laughed and then hesitatingly added, "I was not sure if you would want to . . . I thought perhaps you were still angry with me."

She shook her head. "No, Boromir, I'm not angry. It was nothing, and I'm a silly girl." She smiled at him again. "It's just as well you did not ask me, because dancing with me is more trial than treat. Or so they say." 

"Oh? Who says that?"

"Everyone who has ever had the misfortune to dance with me. But mostly my brother." 

Boromir laughed, liking her for her good humor as much as her beauty. He was about to ask her for a dance when he felt her tug at the Horn. She looked at him curiously.

"It is the Horn of Gondor. It marks me as the heir of my house."

She ran a finger along its surface, but then pulled away suddenly, as if the thing had burned her. "It marks you indeed." Something in her voice had changed, become melancholy, and it made Boromir uneasy.

"Míriel. Are you all right?"

She seemed to snap out of her reverie. "Yes, yes. Of course." She laughed. "It's nothing. I told you already that I'm just a silly girl."

Boromir was not convinced, but he decided not to press her, at least for the moment. "I have something to ask of you."

She looked at him keenly, coloring slightly as she waited for him to ask.

"Will you meet me later? In the gardens by the Citadel?"

She seemed surprised, and even slightly disappointed by this, but she recovered quickly, and her face filled with curiosity. "I should like that, but I should also like to know why."

"Oh, I have a small present for you, but you will have to contain your curiosity until after the feast."

--

By the time the feast ended, and Gondor's guests made their way slowly out of Merethrond, snow had begun to fall in Minas Tirith. By the time Boromir found himself in the Citadel's gardens, the ground was covered with a thin layer of white. He sat on a bench, a plain covered box made of ordinary wood at his side. He scuffed the snow with his feet, his impatience growing as he waited for Míriel, and wondered what he would say to her, whether he should finally speak his mind.

Her voice broke into his thoughts as she called out his name softly. He turned to see her and was as stunned as he had been at the feast. She was not dressed in her _mettarë_ finery now, but to Boromir, she seemed even lovelier than before, Lúthien-fair.

_He gazed, and as he gazed her hair  
within its cloudy web did snare  
the silver moonbeams sifting white  
between the leaves, and glinting bright_

Boromir had planned a grand speech, but found himself at a loss for words. Míriel looked at him with a friendly expression at first, but it quickly turned to one of awe and then to one of great delight. She laughed and walked towards him, holding her hands out in invitation.

_Come! Dance now, Beren, dance with me!  
For fain thy dancing I would see._

Boromir took her hands, smiling as her joy infected him. He spun her around in delight, until she slipped a little on the snow and grabbed his shoulders to keep from falling. He held her up and then pulled her close, imagining that he could hear her heart beat against his own. He was savoring the moment when she cleared her throat gently and pulled away from him. He released her instantly, embarrassed a little at his own presumption.

She turned away from him, obviously a little embarrassed herself, and then pointed at the wooden box on the bench. "What is that?"

"Ah, yes. It's . . . it's your gift . . . for year-end . . . the one I spoke of before." He gave her the box with a bow and a flourish, and she accepted it with equal show.

She pried off the lid with great excitement, but then stared back at Boromir, a look of utter confusion on her face. "You are giving me a box . . . a box of dirt for _mettarë_?"

Boromir smiled sheepishly. "It's not really a box of dirt . . . there are seeds of a plant native to the City in it. It's a sort of . . . bush, with white flowers. If you come here in the summer, you would see it everywhere." He let his voice trail off, and then waited for some sort of reaction, but Míriel still seemed a little uncertain, so he continued.

"When you return to your home, you can plant it in your own garden, and it will remind you of Minas Tirith." He shuffled, a little nervous now. "And perhaps when you look at it, you will think of me as well."

She nodded, comprehension finally dawning in her eyes. She set the box down on the bench and looked Boromir directly in the eye. "I already do. Think of you, that is. All the time."

Boromir felt a tightness in his chest at her words, but she spoke again before he could form a thought. "I have wanted to speak my heart before, Boromir. But you never said anything, and I was afraid."

"Míriel . . . I . . . "

She shook her head, and laid the flat of her hand against Boromir's chest. "I truly am a silly girl, or I would have known before that your eyes speak what your words do not."

He covered her hand with his own. "And your eyes? Do they speak the same?"

She smiled in answer, and standing on her toes, pressed her lips to his. Boromir was surprised by her kiss, but only for a moment. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her back in earnest, as his heart filled with desire and fulfillment and he felt all those things he had only read about in the great poems.

_The moon hung moveless in the night.  
And this it was that Beren heard,  
And this he saw, without a word,  
enchanted dumb, yet filled with fire  
of such a wonder and desire  
that all his mortal mind was dim..._


End file.
